Page 144 of Sexting the Pakhan

“You made a scary noise,” Mila says.

I clear my throat. “Did I?”

She nods. “Like a bear.”

“I apologize.”

“Are you a bear?”

“No.”

She studies my face. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“My sister says people can’t be bears, but sometimes adults say things that are not facts.”

I sit back carefully against the pillow. “Your sister sounds sensible.”

Mila comes closer, completely unafraid in the way only a child can be when she has not yet been taught what I am.

“She is sensible,” Mila says. “But she’s also shy.”

I look past her toward the hallway again. “Where is she?”

“Hiding.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re awake.”

That seems fair.

Mila climbs onto the edge of the couch before I can stop her.

“Careful,” I say.

“I am careful,” she says, placing one knee near my hip and the other on the blanket beside me.

“You’re climbing on an injured man.”

“I’m not on your injured leg.”

“That’s not the only rule.”

She ignores this and settles herself halfway against my side, small and warm, her rabbit pressed between us.

I go very still.

Children have never been easy for me. Men, I understand. Enemies, traitors, liars, cowards. A man shows you what he wants, and if he doesn’t, you find where he keeps it hidden.

Children are different. They ask questions with their whole faces. They trust before you earn it. They put their hands on your sleeve and assume you will not hurt them.

Mila looks up at me. “Are you still bleeding?”

“No.”

“Are you lying?”